


to riots roaring on

by youdidnt



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Light Angst, London: Become Human, M/M, Mutual Pining, Repression, Romance, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youdidnt/pseuds/youdidnt
Summary: “Anathema, ye shall be the guide for your friends who have seen the creation of men, walketh among men and from forth on shall be men.”"You burned one of Agnes Nutter's books?" Aziraphale gasps. "And it was the only one?""Not the priority here, angel," Crowley mutters.-Aziraphale is going too fast, Crowley is in denial and they're both becoming human.





	to riots roaring on

**Author's Note:**

> It's time for my one (1) annual fanfiction. Alternative title: the fic that became angstier than intended.
> 
> This fic was entirely inspired by Snow Patrol's ["Life on Earth"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqYWcp1JH7Y) (that's also where the title is from) and I highly suggest you go and listen to it because it's a) a good song b) probably about Aziraphale and Crowley.
> 
> Many thanks to [Quanna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quanna) for making the whole thing actually readable.

It is not like falling at all, Crowley thinks. 

The Fall was abrupt and sudden, one moment here and the next somewhere else. This however, whatever _this_ is, happens gradually.

He doesn’t think much of it at first - the changes are small, insignificant even, but oh, they’re there. They’re _definitely_ there. Still, the world is a strange place, especially one that is somewhat influenced by the whims and thoughts of a pre-pubescent antichrist. So what if his plants have been acting somewhat contrary recently? And so what if the streets of London have become a lot less accommodating to his way of driving than they used to all of sudden? 

It's not like he isn’t worried, because he definitely very much is. In all his 6000 years on Earth - and even before that - his powers have never failed him, not even once. He pushes the thought back as far as he can, because it’s not as bad as it could be: He could be a steaming puddle at the bottom of a bathtub in some forgotten corner of hell, or, even worse, drinking himself stupid in some shady pub and bemoaning the death of his best - his only - friend.

He doesn’t tell Aziraphale even though ‘no more secrets’ seemed to be the unspoken consensus they reached after the apocalypse-that-wasn't. Some things though, Crowley thinks, are just too big for words. Another example of this is how he feels about Aziraphale. The humans call it love, _Liebe, habibi, agapi…_ they have an uncountable amount of words for it in an uncountable amount of languages, and yet Crowley doesn’t think any of them fitting for what he feels. It's too big and too messy (and too inappropriate for a demon), a millennia old feeling that existed long before the humans came up with their languages. Maybe (probably) Aziraphale would be able to put it into words, he always had a way with them, but that would require Crowley to speak up first.

Another thing he cannot put into words is the feeling coursing through his veins when he looks in the mirror and sees a grey hair on his immortal body that hasn’t aged in 6000 years. 

So he doesn't talk about either of these things. 

____

How Aziraphale ever fooled anyone in hell with that face of his Crowley will never know. Crowley likes looking at that face because he can always see exactly what is going on inside Aziraphale’s head; it’s not like reading an open book, it’s like Aziraphale is reading the book to him. Also, he has a nice face to look at.

Right now something complicated is happening on his face, emotions changing too fast for Crowley to catch what exactly is going on, so he waits, skimming through one of the thousands of books that litter the bookshop.

"Say, my dear," Aziraphale finally says. He avoids looking at Crowley, but Crowley is now definitely looking at him.

"I know it's a sensitive topic, but I have to ask: When you, ah, what did you call it, ascended ambiguously-"

"Sauntered vaguely downward."

"Yes, that. When you... did that. Where there any signs of it happening before?"

Crowley carefully puts the book away, deliberately searching for the most bored tone he can find.

"I didn’t exactly get a personal note saying 'you're about to go down, have a pleasant trip'."

"That's not what I meant-"

"I know what you meant," Crowley snaps without meaning to. "And the answer is still no. I didn't get any warning whatsoever. It just happened."

"I see." Aziraphale frowns, looking like he doesn't see at all.

"Why are you asking?" Crowley asks, peering at Aziraphale over the top of his glasses. Aziraphale still hasn't looked up from his book.

"Ah, don't you worry about it, just curiosity," he says. "Did something... change about your miracle powers?"

Crowley takes another sip because his throat has suddenly become very dry.

"Apart from the fact that I'm now using them for different reasons they're roughly the same." 

Aziraphale nods, his forehead lined with wrinkles.

"What brought this on?" Crowley asks, already sure about what exactly brought this on but he wants Aziraphale to say it first.

A nervous laugh escapes Aziraphale’s throat and he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"Nevermind all that. More wine?"

"Tempting me again, angel?”

A fond smile is the only answer he gets.

Crowley keeps his mouth shut. If Aziraphale isn't going to mention it, he won't, either.

____

It is crowded on this particular Friday night and yet he can only make out a few hushed conversations over the sound of the piano. That’s what Crowley likes most about the Ritz: the silence. If rich people are good at one thing, it’s being concerned about always appearing nice and proper in public.

"Do you want to try the roast duck, Crowley? It tastes just divine."

"I guess you would know," Crowley scoffs but steals a piece from Aziraphale's plate anyway. It tastes like all meat tastes to him; he wouldn’t be able to make out the difference between McDonalds and this if he tried. Eating has always been Aziraphale's guilty pleasure, not his. Alcohol, on the other hand...

"Excuse me, can we get another bottle of this Pinot Noir?" he says as a waiter walks by, nodding towards the empty bottle sitting on their table. 

"I am very sorry, sir, but I'm afraid we just sold the last bottle," the waiter says. "But we have a similar one from Cornwall that you might want to try."

All it would take is just a small miracle, a few persuasive words; _I’m sure the other guests would give up their wine gladly, maybe they would like to try a different one and let us have theirs instead?_ The words are on the tip of his tongue, already formed, just needed to be spoken aloud, and then he thinks of his almost car crash this morning and they die in his mouth.

"Fine, get us the one from Cornwall then," he grumbles.

"Very good, sir. Again, I am very sorry for the inconvenience."

Crowley tosses down the last sip of his glass and feels a curious stare boring into the side of his head. He very pointedly looks away, suddenly fascinated by the empty wine bottle

“You could always just fill up the bottle,” Aziraphale says. “Or use your wiles on the waiter.”

“Using my wiles? Seducing someone in public isn’t exactly my style,” Crowley leers and Aziraphale’s cheeks turn pink.

“You know that’s not what I meant. What I’m asking is, why didn’t you just use your powers on him?”

"I’m surprised that you of all people would mind, angel.”

"Oh believe me dear, I don't. It's just that my approval has never stopped you before."

Crowley looks up from the bottle and almost flinches. They way Aziraphale is staring at him is unsettling, to say the least. The frown is back, now accompanied by something sharp in his eyes, something knowing that is cutting right through his thoughts. Crowley opens his mouth to say something, even though he has no idea what it might be.

By some heavenly intervention (or hellishly, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care) the waiter chooses this exact moment to come back with another bottle of wine. He waits for Crowley to take a sip and it doesn’t taste like the one from before at all, but he dismisses the waiter with a nod.

"More wine?" he asks Aziraphale who also nods, but he doesn't take his eyes off Crowley. Usually Crowley wouldn't mind. Quite the opposite, he loves it when Aziraphale looks at him, revels in his affectionate gaze, but there's none of the usual warmth in his eyes now. There's a question, one that Crowley neither wants to ask nor answer because speaking it out loud would give it a name, would make it even more real, and Crowley doesn't feel ready for it. Not yet. Preferably not ever.

But he knows he can't escape it forever. And he knows Aziraphale knows too. 

____

It happens even earlier than Crowley expected.

“I’m not stupid, you know,” Aziraphale says just as they are about to bid their goodbyes.

“I know,” Crowley says without missing a beat because Aziraphale is one of the smartest beings he’s ever met and there’s no point in denying it.

“You do? Could have fooled me with the way you act,” he says defensively. “And don’t you dare play dumb with me. I won’t talk to you again – and, and this time I really mean it.”

“Alright,” Crowley drawls. “My miracle work is a bit… subpar lately but it’s probably just the aftermath of everything that happened. No big deal.”

“No big-“ Aziraphale splutters. “I was worried I was Falling, Crowley! And as a matter of fact, I still _am_ worried! We really ought to talk about this!”

There’s something about the word _talk_ that pulls at the knot in Crowley’s stomach, tightening it until he feels sick.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says with more conviction then he actually feels. “Tell you what. Let’s sleep on it a few more nights and if it doesn’t get better we can try to figure things out?”

“Crowley…”

“Just a few more days, angel,” Crowley pleads. _Let me have this._

Aziraphale doesn’t look happy, but his sigh is laced with resignation.

“Have it your way, then. Even though I really don’t think this is something we can just… sleep on. Actually, maybe you can do the sleeping while I will try to find a useful solution. I wish you a good night.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley calls but the angel has already stormed off. Watching him leave stirs up some unpleasant memories in Crowley’s head and he pushes them away, too.

The tragedy is, he knows he’s shoulder-deep in denial and doesn’t know how much longer he can keep his head above water, knows Aziraphale is right and he should run after him to tell him right away and apologise, but he still finds comfort in the thought of telling Aziraphale “I told you so” as soon as things get better.

____

Things don’t get better.

One week after their fight he attempts to summon his wings. He tries for half an hour before he gives up.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

____

"We need to talk."

The door of the shop falls shut behind him with a resounding bang. He hopes the shop is free of customers (it’s not as if he can sense them (anymore)) because his patience is spread thin as butter and he doesn’t want to deal with more than necessary. Luckily the only person in the room seems to be Aziraphale, who is looking at him with a mixture of worry and annoyance. He steps from behind the counter and walks towards the sitting area. Crowley follows him wordlessly.

It’s Aziraphale who finally speaks up after they’ve taken their seats. Aziraphale is, as always, perched up on the sofa, and Crowley, as always, spread across the wing chair.

"You look awful, Crowley.”

"Not looking too fresh there either, angel," Crowley replies, glancing at Aziraphale’s mussed hair and the dark circles under his eyes. It’s not at all the Aziraphale he knows and the sight makes him want to kick the nearest object into oblivion. Instead he drapes his long legs over the armrest, leans his elbows on the other and stares up at the ceiling.

"Ah. Yes, strange couple of days. But you would know, I presume?" Aziraphale gives him a sharp look. “If you’re done sleeping, that is.”

What an awfully interesting ceiling that is. He has never noticed before.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says with a voice so small and not like him at all that Crowley’s heart aches. He doesn’t dare looking at Aziraphale, fearing it would break. “What is happening to us?”

"That's the prize question, isn't it?" Crowley sighs. "If I wouldn't know better I'd say we're becoming... _human._ "

"Do you think it's them? Heaven and hell, I mean?" Aziraphale asks.

"I highly doubt it. Do you remember what they tried to do to us?" They both shudder at the thought of their almost-fate.

"How could I not?"

"This is way too subtle for them. Neither heaven nor hell would miss out on the opportunity of rubbing it under our noses."

"Well then, there's only one other being who is powerful enough to do something like this," Aziraphale says after a moment of silence.

"Oh angel, please," Crowley scoffs. "What would She get out of this? If this is Her punishment She would have thought of a better way to do it; She’s shown Her creativity in the past."

"I don't know, Crowley. Her ways are in-"

"Don't you dare say it."

"Alright, I won't. But that still leaves us with the main problem." He gives Crowley a somber look. "What are we going to do now?"

“Would I be acting like this if I knew?”

The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them. It’s the most honest Crowley has been in weeks. With Aziraphale, too, but mainly with himself.

"Surely taking care of a human body can't be that hard," Aziraphale says. To convince himself or Crowley, Crowley will never know. "I tried out sleeping last night and it's not too bad I found. Using the water closet on the other hand..."

"Don't. Start," Crowley groans. He pushes his sunglasses onto his forehead and rubs his eyes. 

"Maybe we should ask Anathema," Aziraphale suggests.

“I don’t think she’ll be able to help to us.”

“Why not? I found her to be a very intelligent and capable woman and besides, there’s no harm in asking. Maybe there’s something in her book about it. Come to think of it, it’s very likely-“

Aziraphale stops speaking and stares at Crowley with open eyes, a hand moving up to cover his mouth. Under other circumstances it would be adorable, but there’s shock written all over his face.

“Do I have something on my face? Why are you staring at me like that?”

"Your eyes, Crowley," he says on a choked breath. "They're brown."

A moment passes. And another. Then Crowley curses, shoves the sunglasses back in place, gets up from the chair and really does kick the nearest object (a book) into oblivion. Aziraphale stays quiet.

“Alright then. Let’s pay the witch a visit.”

____

The car stops in front of Jasmine Cottage. Neither of them says anything for a moment.

“Did you see that Lavender Cottage is up for sale?” Aziraphale says. Crowley doesn’t even know or care where Lavender Cottage is, so he just hums.

“It’s got this marvellous garden, although the inside looks a bit small. If I were to live in the countryside I’d want a place for all my books.”

Crowley grins.

“All of them? They barely fit in your bookshop.”

“Well, it needs to be a big house then, doesn’t it? It would also be nice to live by the sea, I presume.”

“… Would you now,” Crowley mutters and looks at Aziraphale. The angel looks right back, gaze unwavering.

“Yes, I think I would like that very much.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Crowley murmurs and steps out of the car.

The door to Jasmine Cottage is wide open. Crowley makes to take a step in, but Aziraphale pulls him back by the arm.

"It's rude," he explains, and knocks on the open door. Hidden behind the sunglasses, Crowley rolls his eyes. 

"You can come in!" a voice from within the cottage calls. Crowley gives Aziraphale a look, as if to say "See?", but Aziraphale ignores him and walks ahead.

Anathema is sitting in what is supposed to be a living room, but at the moment looks like Aziraphale's bookshop at its worst, books and sheets of paper scattered all over the place. Right in the centre, like the sun in a solar system made out of clutter, is Anathema, cross-legged with a book on one leg and a laptop on the other. She looks up when they enter.

“Oh, it’s you,” she says with a smile. “I was wondering when you’d come.” 

"Pardon?" Aziraphale asks, confused, right as Crowley says "You were expecting us?”

“I was, but I didn’t know when. To be quite honest, I expected you a lot sooner.”

Crowley crosses his arms in front of his chest. “And why is that?”

"Do you want the short or the long version?"

"Short," both of them say at the same time, with a "please" added by Aziraphale.

Anathema rattles away. 

"So, there was a second book of prophecies and I couldn't resist taking a peek at the first page before burning it. Most prophecies were about me, that's why I burned it, but there was one about you.” She clears her throat. “Anathema, ye shall be the guide for your friends who have seen the creation of men, walketh among men and from forth on shall be men.”

"You burned one of Agnes Nutter's books?" Aziraphale gasps. "And it was the only one?"

"Not the priority here, angel," Crowley mutters. “Did the book have anything to say on why this is happening?”

“Not this book, no,” she admits. “But I have done some research.”

She slides both book and laptop off her lap and reaches for three different books (one of them being a Bible, Crowley notices with disdain) and some pieces of paper scattered across the room.

“Let’s take this to the kitchen, shall we? More space and I can fix you a cup of tea.”

“What a lovely idea,” Aziraphale says. His face tells a different story, one of an angel turning human who would rather drown himself in alcohol right about now. Crowley sympathises.

____

"Say my dear, where's young Mr Pulsifier?" Aziraphale asks, nursing his mug. The kitchen looks the complete opposite of the living room with shiny, clutter-free surfaces and the only books around the ones Anathema brought with her 

“Haven’t I told you? He took up a new job at the library. Turns out they have an ancient shelving system that relies on paper alone, there are no computers in a 500 feet radius. It’s perfect for him.” The sweet smile on her face only lasts a fraction of a second. Her whole demeanour changes as soon as she reaches for one of the tomes ; she means business.

“Now, let's get to the matter of hand! There's a story I'd quite like to share with you before it gets dark outside. I assume you two know about the Nephilim?"

"Oh boy do we," Crowley says, shooting Aziraphale a pointed glance through his glasses. Aziraphale bristles.

"I don't understand why you must look at me like this," he says defensively.

"It was your lot that couldn't keep it in their pants.”

"My -!" Aziraphale splutters. "Someone clearly tempted them!"

"Please," Crowley drawls. "There was no temptation needed. Turns out angels are just as promiscuous as demons."

He leers at Aziraphale, who turns his gaze away, turning a shade of pink that reminds Crowley of that apple so many years ago. He has a newfound understanding for Eve’s actions now.

"Gentlemen," Anathema interrupts, looking amused. "Can we get back to the topic?" 

"The topic being angels fucking humans and creating vile abominations?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale glares at him. “Don’t be crude.”

Anathema laughs. “The Bible uses… different words, but yes, that’s the gist of the story. However, I found this…”

She skims the pages of the two humongous books at the same time, something Crowley had been sure only Aziraphale was capable of, until she finds the pages she’s been looking for. She turns the books for them to see and points at a picture of a perfectly normal looking couple holding a perfectly normal looking baby.

“Here,” she says. “There’s an old story about an angel who was… different. His name has been lost over the years, but this book implies he was one of the 200 who went down to earth to lie with women.”

“But the child looks human,” Aziraphale says, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“Precisely. It seems like this angel fell in love instead of just, you know, lust, but both books are very vague about the details; this one assumes he fell in love with the woman, while the other one says it’s being human and living among them is what he fell in love with. They both agree on one thing, though. The angel was offered a choice by God: to be punished like his brethren, or to become human.”

“And he chose the latter,” Aziraphale concludes.

“Presumably, although it’s just a myth. I have to admit that Christianity isn’t my field of expertise. If it weren’t for the whole apocalypse business and the fact that I’ve actually met Satan himself I wouldn’t believe a thing of what I just said.”

She closes the books and shoves them carelessly to the side (there’s a wince to Crowley’s left), grabbing one of the sheets of paper instead. Before she can speak up again, she gets interrupted by Crowley.

“So according to this,” he gestures to the books. “This is happening to us because we’ve spent too much time here?” 

Very slowly, very carefully, Anathema lifts one fine eyebrow and looks from him to Aziraphale and back to him again. The other eyebrow follows. She takes a sip of her tea.

“I’ll let you figure that one out on your own,” she finally says.

"But," Aziraphale exclaims. "Why is this happening now? We have been here for more than 6000 years and certainly acted human before.”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question and I’m afraid I have no answer for you. If I had to guess I’d say the almost apocalypse shifted some things in the big cosmic scheme of everything. Maybe your God is just bored; if everything in the Bible is to be believed He’s done some pretty random things in the past.”

“She,” Aziraphale says absent-mindedly.

“Hm?”

“God. She prefers to go by She nowadays.”

Anathema looks stunned. “Oh. Good for Her.”

Both Aziraphale and Anathema seem to be preoccupied with thoughts Crowley has shoved to the back of his mind and carefully tried not to think about and he doesn’t plan on changing that now. No, he will have his own personal breakdown as soon as he’s alone. Bored by the silence, his gaze falls on the sheets of paper in front of Anathema; they appear to be some sort of… lists.

“What’s that?” he points at them.

“Hm? Oh,” Anathema’s face brightens up and she shoves the paper across the table. “I was thinking of ways to help you, so I compiled a ‘how to be human’ checklist. I also got you a starter pack with toothbrushes and such, it’s in the bathroom. Wait, let me go and get it.”

And just like that she’s gone. Crowley turns to Aziraphale.

“You alright there, angel? You’re looking a bit pale.”

“Oh, tickety-boo. Just one question: Do you know what fainting feels like? Because I think I might need to lie down for a bit.”

____

Aziraphale doesn’t faint, even when Anathema explains the contents of her “starter pack” to them with childish glee. Crowley doesn’t know yet how to feel about… conditioner, even though Anathema insists that he will need it with his sort of hair, but he thinks he’ll find out soon enough. They carry a year’s worth of toiletries to the car (or: they load a veritable year’s worth of toiletries into the car) and thank Anathema before they set out for London again.

They drive in silence. Even the Bentley isn’t in the mood for noise and plays them only the slower Queen songs. Crowley is driving below the speed limit, staring at the road ahead with unparalleled concentration. Whether it’s because he's avoiding conversation or because he doesn't trust his miracle-less driving he’s not sure himself either. 

Aziraphale is fiddling with a loose thread on his coat, looking out the window every now and then. Sometimes he glances at Crowley out of the corner of his eye or opens his mouth as if to say something, but no words come out. It's uncomfortable, Crowley thinks. Being near Aziraphale shouldn't be uncomfortable. The comfort of his angel’s company had been the one thing he could always rely on and now even that is being taken away from him. Was this what it meant to be human? Losing everything at once to the whims of a higher power?

"Here we are," he says, pulling up in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop. It could use a new coat of paint, he thinks, and resists the urge to snap his fingers, just to see what would happen – or won’t.

"Do you want to come inside for a cup of tea?" Aziraphale asks. "I've got this magnificent new Oolong, the tea merchant said it’s the finest from China. I have not tried it yet because I thought maybe you would like to share it with me?”

Crowley looks away, not bearing to look at Aziraphale’s face at all.

"I think I'd rather not, angel. I would like to be by myself for a bit."

The seconds pass.

"Is this going to be another one of these ‘ _sleeping on it_ ’ things?” Aziraphale says after what feels like hours. “Maybe another century will do?"

"No, no it's not," he says quickly and then, with a hint of bitterness, "I don't think I have another century."

Aziraphale huffs in annoyance. “Well then, when should I expect to hear from you?”

"I don't know," he admits. "Soon? Maybe. Probably. It's nothing personal, Aziraphale, I just need some time to… think."

"That has never been your strong suit," Aziraphale snorts before adding with a much softer voice, "You don't have to do this on your own, Crowley. We're in this together."

"I know, trust me, I know," he sighs and brushes his hair back. In the rearview mirror he catches a glimpse of his brown eyes over the top of his glasses and immediately looks away. “Angel, aren't you... scared?"

"Positively terrified," Aziraphale chirps. 

"Then how are you so calm?" Crowley asks.

Crowley’s hand twitches on the handbrake when another hand lands on it, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Do you know the last time I was this scared, Crowley? I had a gun pointed to my head and was about to be inconveniently discorporated – and then you appeared. And, the time before that, in France. And even before that, that the very beginning, when I gave my sword away and doubted myself for the very first time in my life! Every time I was scared and every time you were there. And even though I cannot say I am not weary of the excuses and the running away, deep down I still know that you’re there.”

Crowley's heart aches, and it pains him, pains him like nothing has done before, when he pulls his hand away and says "Give me one night, I just need to be alone for one night. I will call you tomorrow, I promise."

"Alright," Aziraphale says calmly, all the resentment in his face now replaced with resignation. "I will be here. Don't leave me waiting too long."

"Now who is going too fast," Crowley jokes, but Aziraphale grimaces as if in pain and it makes Crowley's heart ache even more. Then it stops altogether, because Aziraphale is moving towards him, slowly, determinately, and presses his lips to Crowley's forehead. 

"We don't have forever, my dear," he says, voice drenched with sadness, and a soft smile playing on his lips. He opens the door and makes to leave, but not without turning around one last time. 

"I look forward to talking to you soon."

"Yeah," Crowley replies and is surprised by how hoarse his voice sounds. He didn't know it could do that. "Yeah, angel, me too."

____

A weariness like he’s never felt before washes over Crowley like a wave the second he gets home. He so desperately wants to fall face first into bed and postpone… whatever it is he needs to do, but he made a promise he doesn’t intend to break. No one said he had to be sober for this though, so he grabs a bottle of wine, not bothering to get a glass, and sits down on the couch. And exhales.

The angel in the story had been offered a choice: Be punished (and if it’s God who’s doing the punishing it can’t have been pleasant), or… become human. Crowley is no angel, not anymore, and he doesn’t know what awaits him if he continues to ignore this. Both options seem like punishment to Crowley, but then his mind drifts to a house somewhere near the beach and... he finally lets it happen. 

The century old background noise becomes a crescendo of human sensations. He can hear the cars outside his window, _really_ hear them like he’s never heard them before, and the light of his lamp becomes as bright and glaring as the sun on a hot summer day. The bottle slips out of his hand and hits the ground with a deafening sound, the smell of wine and of the whole city filling his nostrils. His body, his human vessel that has served him so well for millennia, is now blurring and fraying at the edges, too big for the onslaught of sensations. He can't imagine what it must be like to feel like this every day, how humans are not bursting at the seams under all this pressure. And the angels, how they must feel, sensing human emotions at all times, especially if they are as kind and sensitive as - 

Everything comes to a halt. There's only one thing, one name his mind can focus on, and it makes his knees go weak and has his stomach in knots. His heart, purely for decoration not a week ago, hammers against his chest until it hurts and he can feel the blood being pumped through his veins. Crowley has never died and therefore doesn't know what dying feels like, but he imagines it to be like this; everything and all at once.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there just… sensing, feeling. The sky is turning crimson when he finally crawls into bed slamming the windows shut and drawing the blinds, but it’s not enough. He tries to make his body fall asleep but everything is still too loud and too bright and too much. 

____

Aziraphale doesn’t have to wait long this time. 

The wheels of the Bentley come to a screeching halt. Someone behind him is honking and since this is London probably cursing at him too, but Crowley couldn’t care less. He leaves the car where it is, and if that's only partly in a parking lot and partly on the middle of the street, well, then so be it, and rushes into the shop. 

There's a lingering smell of mildew and dust in the room, one that has probably been there for decades, one that Crowley has never noticed before. But he notices now. _Oh,_ he notices _now._

"Aziraphale?" he calls, not being able to sense him anymore. He’s visited by a feeling of regret, but only for a fraction of a second, because where his powers once lay is now room for so much more.

"Angel, where are you?" he calls again after his earlier call goes unanswered. Still, no response. 

His lungs, his arteries, his stomach, all the things he's never needed before, filled with anticipation. It's exhilarating and breathtaking and _where is Aziraphale?_

The bell above the shop door rings. 

"'lo?" Crowley hears a familiar voice say and he walks, runs, sprints to its source and there he is. Aziraphale’s clothes are rumpled and dirty because he hasn't quite got the hang of the whole changing clothes business yet, and his hair is sticking up in every direction and the circles under his eyes are still there. Gone are the days where he dressed up all pompous in the middle of the French revolution (because he had standards, thank you very much). He looks so lost and so remarkably human and yet so divine in Crowley’s eyes.

"Oh, Crowley," he says as he spots the demon. "I’m glad to see you so soon, my dear. If I’m being perfectly honest, I expected you to take longer, but you're just in time for tea. I picked up some scones from the shop nearby, would you like to join me?"

 _You forgot to lock up your shop_ , he thinks.

"Aziraphale," he says. 

Aziraphale eyes him up and down, looking for something, finding it in Crowley's now brown, now human eyes, a small and hopeful smile spreading across his face. He sets his groceries neatly on the counter.

"Am I right to assume that you have finally gotten your head out of your arse?" he asks, mirth in his eyes. 

_Excuse me?_ , Crowley thinks. 

"Aziraphale," he says again, needier than before. Somewhere in the back of his mind he begins to wonder if not being able to move is another human thing, or if it's just him.

Luckily he doesn't need to move, because Aziraphale is walking towards him now. He comes to a halt right in front of Crowley and smiles.

“Are you quite done with your pondering?”

Crowley barely hears the question through the noise in his head, but he nods anyway. 

"Good."

And that's the only warning he gets before Aziraphale kisses him. _Really_ kisses him this time, not just on the forehead, but on the lips, breathing life back into Crowley. His hands move up to Aziraphale's face, cupping both cheeks, keeping him there as long as possible.

Crowley wonders why he’s ever bothered to tempt humans into this; if this is what it’s like every time, if this is how it feels to be human and to be kissed, well, he doesn’t need to be tempted by some third party. The feeling of kissing Aziraphale is drowning out everything else, softening the noise in his head, so he moves in again and again and again.

When they finally break apart his eyes stay closed. 

"Angel," he says quietly into the space between them. Aziraphale chuckles.

"I'm afraid you have to find a new nickname for me dear," he says. "There's not much angelic left in me."

"Don't care," Crowley mutters and kisses him again, because he can. Aziraphale sighs and tightens his grip around Crowley’s waist. 

"I am scared, Crowley," he says once they break apart again. "This body is so awfully fragile and if I muck it up, then... well, that's it. No paperwork, just... woosh."

"That won't happen," Crowley says, stroking Aziraphale's cheek. "I won't let it happen."

"I know you won't," Aziraphale says and plants another small kiss on his lips, making Crowley’s toes curl. "But the thought of everything being over so soon... Crowley, I don't know what to do."

"We will figure it out," he says with more conviction then he feels. "Somehow. Together."

A hopeful little smile spreads across Aziraphale's lips. He takes a step away but reaches for Crowley's hand, intertwining their fingers.

“No more sleeping on things?” he jokes. 

Crowley grins.

“You know I won’t make promises I can’t keep.”

“That’s a lie and you know it Crowley.”

Crowley can’t help but laugh at the incredulous look on Aziraphale’s face. For some reason he can’t stop and Aziraphale soon joins him, both of them laughing about nothing at all. 

"Let's make the best of the time we still have left, then," Aziraphale says, still giggling.

"No time like the present," Crowley agrees. “Where do we start?”

Aziraphale's smile widens, until it becomes the characteristic, familiar smirk Crowley has come to know and… and maybe even something else.

"I believe you promised me a picnic a while ago," he says.

“I heard the beaches in the south are quite nice for a picnic,” Crowley says nonchalantly. “And the housing market there is really booming this time of year. What do you say, want to check it out while we’re there?”

Aziraphale beams at him.

And maybe that’s all he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> _*annoying Youtuber voice* Don't forget to like and subscribe!_
> 
> (in all honesty validation is what keeps me going nowadays so I'd be elated if you'd take a milisecond to press the kudos button or even take some of your time to let me know what you think)


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